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My foot hurts. The tendon where the repair took place last November is like a Polish sausage, squeezing the nerves to where I don't feel much in my foot anywhere, which is bringing my foot into line with how I have felt for several decades.
That's no excuse for not posting, of course, because there is a weekly period after lunch on Tuesday when I should be able to share my ludicrous thoughts with more than 6 billion people, most of whom don't even read the language I write.
I have often used the metaphor of cave paintings to describe what I do. Mrs. Faustroll thinks this is an expression of my suicidal pessimism, but I don't think it is.
I am going to die without ever accomplishing anything — as most of us are. Why? Because politics is poopadoodle, and real people don't have the resources to play with other people's lives.
We are all here by accident with equal opportunity to become collateral damage while the muck-muck settle their petty grievances and defend this shit they do in the liberal media. Irony is not lost on my laundry.
As I have said and written repeatedly since I could do so: I believe nothing. I believe in nothing. Belief is a wall between you and what you are a part of.
How many are we? Why does it matter? Matter is just a selfish form of energy. Does the world compute to you?
I don't compete. What would I compete for? Who would I compete against?
That is what I find so funny.
That anyone would think I have answers to any of the questions I ask. I only write about the questions that I don't see anyone asking.
People are not normally strange. Strange people are assholes, and you should watch out for them. They are not your friends, no matter what promises they make.
And, of course, I am still committed to bringing on the bomb, because I've paid for it, and surely more people deserve to experience the blessed relief of the big one than a bunch of Japs. What other solution does anyone have?